


strophē

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:38:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damon notices a small exchange between Gerhard and Ayrton on that fateful weekend in Imola.</p>
            </blockquote>





	strophē

The conference room was heavy with an air that prickled the back of my neck. Like many people, I had been in the presence of death before, but this was curiously intimate. One would think that there was no death closer than the passing of a family member - but I, who had lost my father when I was little more than a child, had learned to deal with the inevitable grief that that brought. The death of a colleague somehow scarred deeper, bringing shock and also a certain guilty _Schadenfreude_ : there but for the grace of God go I.

We all gathered, every one of us numb and uncertain. The weekend had already seen two accidents, one of which had been fatal. The previous night, there had been talk of not racing. I'd heard Ayrton say that he didn't want to race, that it was disrespectful. At the time I thought he meant it was disrespectful to Roland's memory, and I found it strange – Ayrton knew all the drivers, sometimes better than they knew themselves, but Roland was relatively new and untried. Now, of course, I know what he meant: it was disrespectful to God, who had gifted him with his talent and who guided him throughout his life.

One should never ignore the word of God, but that's what we did. Ayrton was never a prophet, but on occasions he played Moses to Gerhard's Aaron. I had seen them in the corridor beforehand, Gerhard bending down quite naturally to listen to Ayrton whispering in his ear. I was already seated by the time they came in, and I remember looking up, away from the hushed discussion of yesterday's events, to see them walk in together.

Gerhard was impossible to read. So often the joker, he had perfected a mask of indifference. Only the way he glanced over at Ayrton was any indication of how he really felt. They sat together as usual, and Ayrton stared straight ahead at the lectern, his gaze unfocused. Often in driver meetings he would glare at his rivals, but this time he did not even acknowledge Schumacher. He seemed lost, suddenly much smaller than even his slight build suggested. While there was tangible grief in the room, with him there was almost an absence of emotion, as if he had turned it all inwards and locked it inside him. It was disturbing. Ayrton was controlled, but passionate with it. This time, there was a loss of control in his inward mourning.

The meeting was called to order, and Gerhard rose to speak. Again he flicked a downward glance at Ayrton, and it was clear to me then that he was the author of this design. Gerhard spoke against the pace car, saying that it was too slow, that our cars travelling behind it would lose the heat from their wheels; and that when the race restarted, then the effect of cooling tyres forced into high speeds would be catastrophic – as we had already seen.

His speech was impassioned. We all nodded, hands waving in the air and voices calling out in agreement. We were suddenly not just individual drivers but an entity, a force united in a single, common aim: that our sport should be safer, that every action should be taken in order to prevent another weekend of horror.

Only Ayrton remained withdrawn, hunched into his seat with one leg hooked over the other, his arms folded and one hand pushed against his cheek. His head was lowered, but I could see that he was crying: silent, private tears that roused only the slightest tremor from his body.

Gerhard sat down. The conversation moved around us like leaves in an approaching storm, and Ayrton was in the centre of it, so outwardly calm and yet so inwardly shattered. They say the eye of the storm is the safest place to be, but in order to reach it, one must first weather half of the storm – and even then, one cannot stay in the peace of the eye for too long. The second half of the storm is always the worst, after the lull of the calm.

Schumacher turned in his chair to say something to Gerhard. I watched them for a moment, trying to listen, but heard only snatches of German. When Eddie spoke to me, I began to respond, but then stopped, caught by a tiny gesture between Gerhard and Ayrton.

Without looking, without drawing attention to his action, Gerhard reached down and took Ayrton's hand. Just briefly: just a short, poignant reminder of humanity, of warmth and affection and respect, and yes, of love. I saw Ayrton's fingers cling, saw the desperation turn to gratitude in just that one touch; and then, without lingering, their hands parted.

Even though Ayrton was still lost in his world of mourning, he was still aware of Gerhard beside him. And Gerhard, even though he had given his attention to his conversation with Schumacher, was still supremely aware of how much Ayrton needed him. It is often said that Ayrton could anticipate the performance of any car on any track; that he was an intuitive driver the like of which is seen but rarely – but he could read people in the same way, and Gerhard was perhaps the only man who could anticipate and intuit Ayrton in return.

With hindsight, I wonder if that last caress, that last joining of hands, was Ayrton's acceptance of his destiny. The last time I saw him alive, he was sitting in his car on the grid, helmet and balaclava off, leaning back in his seat and staring straight ahead, just as he'd done in the drivers' meeting. He was not staring at the crowd, or the mechanics, or the grid-girl, or even the blue skies and the dark trees that frame the track at Imola. He was staring into nothing, at the face of God, at the limit of his own fate.

I wonder if Gerhard knew back then, when he touched Ayrton, when their hands clasped together, that it was goodbye.


End file.
